Wayward Sons
by Jael the Scribe
Summary: Have you ever had a moment when all seemed lost to despair . . .? In the Fourth Age, Thranduil Oropherion, his family dead and his son sailed, faces the impending darkness. Drama/Angst. Thranduil, Galion, Other Canon Characters and OCs. Rated PG.
1. Prologue: The Dying of the Light

Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard.

**Wayward Sons**

**Prologue: The Dying of the Light**

_' . . . wise men at their end know dark is right,'  
__Dylan Thomas_

Thranduil awoke to darkness, brought out of sleep by an innate Elven sense that told him the sun had begun its journey across the heavens once again. For a long while he lay motionless in the warmth of his covers, staring upward into the gloom, reluctant to take up the dreary business of his life. He felt adrift on a vast sea of time, slipping ever further away from the sunlit shores of his childhood, when he had greeted the birdsong of the new day with joy, past the tempests of love, war and loss, and into a dead calm of weary sameness toward . . . he knew not what. One more day in the uncountable multitude that had made up the long-years of his life; one day closer to _Ardhon Meth_.

Last night's fire had died; the ashes lay cold in the hearth. The only light in the room came from a faint nimbus around the heavy draperies that covered his shuttered window -- his wife's window -- confirming that daylight had arrived outside the caverns. Thranduil preferred to keep the window hidden. The sight of it served only to remind him that Lalaithiel was no longer there to enjoy it.

He groped for the tinderbox that rested on a table next to his bed and lit the remnants of last night's candle. That done, he stood and began to reach for his robe, which hung over a peg on the wall beside the bed. Halfway through the motion, he froze, catching a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye. There should have been nothing alarming about a candle flame in a dark room . . . save that he fancied he had seen it through the palm of his own hand.

To have the spirit consume the body, to fade into invisibility, was an Elf's eventual fate -- at least those who did not set sail for the West. So Thranduil has always been told, and he felt himself resigned to it as the price to be paid for remaining in his Woods. But so soon? Oh, please Elbereth -- not so soon!

Slowly, he turned his head for a closer look. He swallowed hard and shut his eyes. _'Not so hasty, not so hasty. It is but a trick of the light and your fevered mind. It will be gone when you look again._'

Slowly, Thranduil opened his eyes, trying his best to hold his hand steady. He let out a groan of horror and blew the candle out with a single emphatic puff of breath.

He found his robe by touch alone and put it on, feeling suddenly cold despite the lofty wool. Going on instinct, he stumbled his way to his chair in front of the fireplace and dropped his body into it. A half-spent decanter of wine stood on the floor beside him, where he had abandoned it the night before, with a used goblet next to it. Not bothering to first toss the dregs onto the cold ashes, Thranduil poured with a shaking hand, stopping only when he felt the wine begin to spill down the goblet's sides and over his fingers. He drank, making a face at the sour metallic taste of red wine left standing too long. It was not epicurean pleasure he sought this morning, though, merely the steadying of his nerves and, he hoped, forgetfulness of what he had just seen.

It was the beginning of the end.

o o o O o o o

_To be continued . . ._


	2. To Sing the Sun In Flight

Part One: To Sing the Sun In Flight

_'Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,  
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way . . .'  
__Dylan Thomas_

Thranduil heard the door creak open, the scrape of Galion's soft shoes upon the stone floor, and the clink of a tray being set upon the bedside table. "It is time to awaken, Sire; I have your tea . . ." His voice trailed off, no doubt at the sight of the empty bed. "Sitting in the dark, my Lord? This is not good."

"No light," Thranduil muttered, hearing the scratch of the tinderbox.

"Nonsense." Thranduil heard a sniff of disapproval as the candle flared, revealing the glass of wine in his hand. "We need to get you dressed, Sire. The sun is up and there is something outside that you must see."

Thranduil shook his head and laughed bitterly. "Galion, the word 'must' is never used to kings. Now put out that light and leave me."

"No."

"Yes."

"Sire . . ." The sound of his valet's voice seemed to reach him across a great distance; the words had no meaning.

"Go away, Galion. Can't you see I have nothing left to give? It's finished. I'm finished."

Thranduil waited for the sound of the door shutting. Instead, he heard an angry intake of breath and the sound of footsteps crossing the gap between bed and chair.

"Oh no you don't! You don't get to do this, Thran." Rough hands gripped Thranduil's shoulders and began to shake him. "Oh, I know, it's hard, so very hard. You didn't want it or ask for it, but it's your duty, Thranduil. Elbereth knows I didn't ask for the job of cleaning up after you for the past two Ages, but it fell to me and do you hear me whining about it? You're our king, curse you, and there is something outside that needs your attention. Now, on your feet!"

Had it been anyone other than Galion, it might have come to blows. As it was, too drained to react, Thranduil allowed his valet to yank him to his feet with only minimal protest and drag him from the room. Down the stone corridors they went, and if any of the passing elves felt astonishment at the sight of their bleary-eyed king, barefoot and in his dressing gown, being hustled along by his own butler, they wisely refrained from comment.

Galion spoke the password, the great gates ground open, and Thranduil blinked at the bright light of early morning. Outside, the forest was all a-twitter. "_Elves_!" sang the birds and small forest creatures. He heard their voices in the tree canopy and from the undergrowth. "_Elves, riding . . . on the plain of the great river. On horses, grey, black and brown . . . many of them, riding eastward . . ._"

Thranduil gave his head a shake to clear it, and looked, querying, at Galion, who stared back, hand on hip, as if to say, _'I told you so.'_

What could this mean? Few elves remained in the Middle Lands. The Golden Wood had withered with the departure of Galadriel. Celeborn, too, had gone, and, after a short reign, his successor Rúmil had brought the remnant of his people north from Amon Lanc to join Thranduil over a hundred years previously. Legolas's Elven colony in Ithilien had long since been abandoned, the folk returning to the wood with their new lord, Glavras. Even Rivendell -- timeless Imladris, for two Ages a haven for all free folk in Eriador -- had failed with the fading of Vilya and the sailing of its lord. The timbers of the Last Homely House now lay as fallen and rotted as Thranduil's old palace in the Emyn Duir, its gardens deserted, home to wandering deer and foxes.

Only one explanation seemed likely for a large group of elves riding eastward: Cirdan, tiring of his long vigil, had sent the folk of Mithlond to fetch their Woodland brethren so that they too might quit these lands and sail west. No single, polite messenger this time, to be refused, equally politely yet with increasing adamancy. Thranduil suspected a company of Falathren soldiers for a forced relocation, for that is what he had finally told Cirdan's envoys it would take to dislodge him from his forest.

Thranduil took a deep breath and pulled himself a little straighter. "Galion, have my horse made ready and tell Magorion to assemble thirty men at arms. No, on second thought, make that fifty. And then come inside and armor me up. Whoever these strange elves are, Eryn Lasgalen's king will ride out to meet them." He looked into his old friend's eyes, slate-grey and filled with concern. "One last time, Galion. One last time."

o O o

Four days at the quick-march brought them to a point just inside the Forest Gate. Thranduil no longer kept a watch there. No orcs remained to trouble him, and the Beornings had come to fear the Wood, as did all mortals. He let the growing legends of an evil Elf-king, ruling over a strange and fey folk, protect his borders now.

A scout knelt on a path so narrow that only two horses might pass abreast. He lifted his ear from the leaf-strewn ground. "They are close, Sire."

Thranduil waved a hand and nodded. "Fall back. I will be the first to meet them." The scout bowed and returned to his horse, far back in the line.

"My Lord, is this wise?" whispered Magorion, from atop his dun horse beside him. "If these folk mean us ill, you will be a target out in front."

Thranduil turned his head to favor his chief general with an unwavering gaze. Magorion dropped his eyes and turned his mount around, as Thranduil urged his own forward. Galion fell back as well but remained firmly on the tail of Thranduil's bay charger.

Thranduil smiled to himself as his horse moved up a rise in the trail. Dear Galion! If he were to meet his end in the next few minutes, he would die with a friend at his back, at least.

The trail crested a hill and made a slight turn, revealing a long vista before him. There they were. "Ai, Sweet Elbereth!" Thranduil whispered, slipping back into the pieties of his youth in his shock.

He threw his right leg over the neck of his horse and dropped to the ground, moving on unsteady feet toward the two leaders of the oncoming group, who also had dismounted and stood waiting beside their mounts, a brown and a grey.

His heart hammered, hollow, in his own ears, the wind knocked out of him. His chest pumped, drawing air in and out of his lungs like a speared trout gasping its last upon a riverbank. Impossible, what he saw -- impossible! The Straight Road had run one-way for two Ages now. For those who took it, there was no returning.

_'This is not real. It cannot be real,'_ he told himself. He dared not hope, for to allow his heart to feel it and then to have it snatched away would finish him off for real. He would die upon this trail like Fëanor, although, unlike the legendary son of Finwë, his body would not turn to fire and ash -- he would dissolve in a puff of fog.

"Are you a vision, sent by The Enemy, to tempt me into fatal folly?" he asked, afraid to speak too loudly lest he jar himself from dream and awake once again in the darkness of his chamber.

"Oh, you great royal fool, you 'would' say that," the dark haired one said with a laugh.

"Lalaithiel? Wife . . .?" he said, rushing forward to sweep her into his arms, and hang the consequences if this were some fell trick! He kissed her, gently at first and then desperately, as if he drank life itself from her lips. Her taste was the same, her scent the familiar sweet aroma of earth and trees and the forest after a cleansing rain, yet overlaid with the perfume of exotic spices from a land he now knew he would never see. "Is it really you?"

She nodded beneath him. "Not even the gods themselves could keep me from you, Thranduil."

He held her close, glorying in the press of a body he had thought lost to him until the end of all things. "You are the love of my life," he murmured, wiping his cheek against her hair before lifting his head, lest his men see his weakness. He drew back and looked at her, feeling the life and strength spring anew into his veins.

How could he have failed to notice it -- the beauties of the forest, the way the sun knifed down through the trees, turning the grass to emerald, the perfume of the spring flowers, the birds trilling a paean of joy to his returned dead? He held his hand up to the bright sky, where it showed through a breach in the leafy branches. It blocked the light solidly. He threw back his head and let out a wild laugh, glorying in the joy of simply being alive.

And then, although he ached to take his beloved into the trees to celebrate and renew their age-old and everlasting bond, he stepped away from her and turned his attention to the other rider. The pale-haired one, who stood beside his grey horse, looking on his parents with a bemused smile. On how many occasions does a son get to return the gift of life to a father?

"Legolas." Thranduil pulled him, hard and rough, into a bear hug, feeling at first the stiffness and then the surrender to parental arms.

"Well, _Ada_, I'm home," his boy said.

"For good?"

"Yes," Legolas replied. "To whatever end awaits me."

Thranduil stepped back, keeping a straight-armed grip on his son's wiry shoulders, afraid to let go. He looked past him to the train of elven riders, as it was lost in the twists of the trail, recognizing faces that he had not seen since the Dagorlad. How many? So many questions he had! The why of it, he knew already; the who and the how of it could wait for answers in the weeks to come. Suddenly, they had all the time in the world, and whatever end awaited them all, whether faded into whispers in the wind or on their feet and fighting in the Dagor Dagorath, they would meet it together.

"Nicely done, Legolas," he said. "Nicely done indeed."

o o o O o o o

_To be continued . . ._

**Translations:**

_Falathren: _Shore-folk, Cirdan's people


	3. On the Sad Height

**Part Two: On the Sad Height**

_'Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright  
__Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay . . .'  
__Dylan Thomas_

Dressed only in a robe thrown over a pair of loose-fitting trousers and wearing soft slippers, Thranduil eased open the door of his private study and padded over to his desk. Lalaithiel lay abed in their chamber upstairs, sleeping the sleep of contented exhaustion. Thranduil needed his sleep as well, but a nagging sense of duty had kept him from his rest. Let his beloved slumber; he would not waste her waking hours attending to the overdue business of his realm.

As he suspected, a pile of documents had accumulated on his desk in the past week. At the top rested a long list of names, a final tally of those who had returned along with Legolas. Thranduil moved aside the rock that Galion had used as a paperweight and read, nodding with approval as he recognized many who had been lost to his realm at the Dagorlad and during the long-years of Mirkwood's battle against the Enemy. Some were strange to him -- returnees from Lothlórien, he supposed, or dissatisfied elves of Aman.

Even as he rejoiced in those returned, his heart sank at the absence of those names he had hoped to see and did not. Haldhoron, Galion's son, had been prominent on the list of the returnees, but Galion's wife did not appear. "Oh, my old friend," Thranduil sighed.

He turned the roster over and set it aside. No use grieving over what could no longer be changed. Next on the pile, he found the monthly accountings, reports of the production of the realm. River tolls had fallen to nothing as the folk to the west came to fear the Wood and call the Forest River haunted. Just as well, Thranduil thought; the upkeep of the banks had always been onerous, and he had much disliked the mannish traffic that sailed beneath his stone bridge in days past.

Silk production, alas, had diminished as well. With each generation, the great spiders had grown smaller, along with the size of their webs. His elves no longer hunted them, but rather, encouraged them to breed and spin their strands between the trees. Although the beasts were more numerous, their output had not kept pace with that of days past. On the plus side, while exports of silken cloth had fallen, the amount of raw dyes and medicinal plants harvested from the forest had risen. Trade goods still floated down the Forest River to Laketown, while gold and foodstuffs returned.

Pleased with the figures, Thranduil leaned back in his chair and massaged the bridge of his nose. He felt chagrined to see two months' worth of reports in the stack. Had he truly let things slip so badly? Now that the returnees from Aman required food, shelter and assignment to meaningful work, that would have to change. The income and outflow figures also reminded him that he had not been to Laketown in some years to renegotiate the trade agreements with the men of Rhûn and further east. This too required his attention.

No longer did he ride to Esgaroth as Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking whose gold had rebuilt the town. Now, he played the role of an eccentric merchant who covered his ears with his bright hair and kept his sources of goods a dark secret. Even so, his heart warmed at the thought of taking Lalaithiel with him on his next visit, to spend the night with her in a suite of rooms in an old inn beside the market pool.

The door creaked open, and Thranduil looked up, expecting that Galion had brought him a late night glass of wine. He saw a flash of pale hair and smiled; not his butler, but his son. Legolas!

His smile froze on his face. The hair was the same. The stubborn set of the chin, the same, but -- no, it couldn't be! He had searched the list in vain for that one special name he both hoped and dreaded to see.

_"Ada _. . .?" Thranduil squeaked, his voice breaking for the first time since his youth.

"Hello, son," said Oropher, sauntering in with his customary self-assurance. He leaned against Thranduil's fireplace, one elbow draped nonchalantly over the mantel. "It's good to catch you alone at last. I knew that if I bided my time you'd have to come up for air eventually."

His lips quirked in the crooked grin Thranduil remembered so well. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I spent the first fortnight following my release from Mandos in bed, making up for lost time. At least we're seeing you two at dinner."

"_Ada_ . . .?" No, it still came out in a bleat. Best to shut up until he could master his own voice.

"I really like what you've done here," his father continued, running his hand over a carved frieze of stone leaves decorating the mantel. After two thousand years of staring at it, Thranduil had ceased to notice the small details he had taken such delight in designing during the early days of the stronghold's occupation. Now, he saw it anew. "The ventilation and light tubes are better than Thingol had back in Menegroth. And those marvelous privies! I'm impressed, boy."

"How . . .?" Thranduil managed to choke out. He still hadn't quite caught his breath.

"Legolas has been giving me the grand tour for the past week, while you and your lady play catch-up."

Thranduil shook his head and made an unhappy face. "Legolas. I've been neglecting him."

Oropher barked out a laugh. "Believe me, Thranduil, he understands. You managed to raise a fine son there -- gentle, brave, and with a good head on his shoulders. You should have seen him arguing his case at Máhaxanar. He really did you proud. Stood right up to Manwë Súlimo himself."

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, still speechless. Yes, this would be a tale for the telling, once he had the leisure to listen to it. His boy had defied the gods themselves in order to come home.

"Are you all right, Thranduil? You look ill." His father came over and sat down, putting his feet up on the desk. "Here, have a little of this, it'll set you to rights." He took a small flask from his pocket and held it out.

Thranduil pulled the stopper and took a gulp, expecting Miruvor, since the flask looked to be of _Golodren_ work. Immediately, his throat and lungs flooded with liquid fire. "Aulë's Mighty Rod -- what is that stuff?" he wheezed. At least it hadn't come back out his nose.

"The distilled spirits of fermented rye liquor," Oropher said, reclaiming his flask. "I picked it up in a Mannish village while we were passing through Eriador -- although the Edain don't call it Eriador anymore. Nice, eh?"

Thranduil nodded more in acceptance than agreement. It surely had taken the edge off.

With the numbness came an odd clarity of thought. He knew what he must do next. Pulling open his desk drawer, he removed a key and a small casket. Inside the box lay a ring of silver and onyx, incised with the representation of a beech tree. "Your signet, Father," he said, holding it out. The metal felt as cold against his palm as the first time he'd held it in his grasp. "I took it from your finger before we . . ." He trailed off, unable to say the words. "You'll be needing it."

"Son . . ."

Thranduil slid the key across the desk and went on hurriedly, "This key opens the treasury vault. You'll find the accounts in order; the horde has grown nicely. I imagine Legolas has already given you the words that work the gate. But the spell for the vault is --"

"Thranduil," his father said again, this time louder, "what do you think you're doing?"

"You're the King," Thranduil said, meeting his father's pale blue gaze for the first time. "You're back. That means I'm the Prince again. Kings rule, and princes serve." He swallowed, not sure if he felt regret or relief.

"I'm sorry I don't have a crown for you. It's been a while since I've had the occasion to wear one." He shrugged, trying to remember. On the New Year? Or perhaps as far back as the Solstice, when he wore the holly berries. "Old Forlas still makes them up fresh whenever I need one, you'll be glad to hear. We're almost into flower season now."

"Thranduil . . ." Oropher slid the key back and covered his fist with a long-fingered hand that so resembled Legolas's that it made his heart clench. "Son . . . no. Why do you suppose you didn't see my name on that list?"

Thranduil shrugged and shook his head. He had never been good at riddles.

"I came back incognito," his father continued. "I kept to myself, hiding my face -- only Legolas and a few others know. I don't intend to take up the crown again."

"But, why not?"

"My long-years in Mandos gave me ample time for reflection," Oropher said, with a bitter laugh. "I realized I'm not cut out to be a king."

"But you founded this realm. You built it from nothing and led it for the better part of an Age."

"And my last act as King nearly destroyed it. It outweighs all that came before." Oropher picked up his signet ring and twisted it back and forth between his fingers. "Truth to tell, when it first happened I had a mind to remain houseless rather than answering Mandos' call. It wasn't until Galion's boy died and hovered there looking so lost, that I changed my mind. The two of us traveled west together. I've never felt easy about looking all those men in the eye. I've no wish to face their families now. No, Thranduil, this is all yours. You're better at the business of ruling than I am."

Thranduil shrugged and held out his hand. "Would you mind giving me that flask again?" Oropher handed it over and grinned while Thranduil took another swallow, this time a prudent amount. Even so, he coughed at the sensation of liquid flame. He doubted he would ever acquire the taste for this Mannish tipple, but in the absence of Dorwinion, it calmed his nerves. "_Ada_, in case you haven't noticed, I'm holed up in the furthest northeast corner of the Wood. In a cave."

"Manwë's bollocks, Thranduil!" Oropher exclaimed. "Since when have you been such a whiner?"

"Since you got yourself killed and left me a realm with two-thirds of its manpower gone," he shot back. "My first act as King was a screaming retreat, and I've been running before the Enemy ever since." He shut his eyes and tried to block out the memory of Oropher with an arrow through his neck, drowning in his own blood and silently begging for the stroke of mercy his own son lacked the courage to give. "I'm sorry, Father."

"It's all right, son," Oropher said softly. "You tried." He reclaimed his flask and took a swig. "I couldn't have done half so good a job of holding things together, given what I left you. Legolas told me what those Dwarves stirred up in Moria. Our old palace in the Emyn Duir would never have stood against that ancient horror if it came down to a fight. Nor against a dragon -- or any of the other creatures of The Enemy you had to face."

Oropher's hand shot out to grab his wrist, holding it up to the light of the fire. "Tell me what you see, Thranduil."

He looked, feeling the strong warmth of his father's grasp. "I see my hand. It's solid," he whispered, realizing that after the fell vision of the week before he would never be able to take the substantiality of his flesh for granted again.

"Yes, it's solid, and it will remain that way as long as you stay strong. But do you know what I don't see?"

Thranduil shook his head.

"I don't see any Ring of Power such as I know Gil-galad and Galadriel wore. I'm assuming Ereinion passed his on before he died?"

"He gave it to Elrond," Thranduil muttered. "At least I'm fairly certain he did. Imladris never seemed to change in all the times I visited there."

"You did it, son: held this realm together and built all this." Oropher gestured around, at the stone walls of Thranduil's chamber with their carven tracery of vines and leaves casting shadows from the firelight. "And all without the help of any _Golodhren_ magic like the others had -- just through sheer force of will. You're the last one -- the only Elven king in the Middle lands -- and I'm not about to change that. I'd be a fool to change it."

Thranduil managed a shaky smile. "I've always said my father raised no fools. I daresay yours didn't either."

Oropher laughed and shrugged. "I wish I could say that. But my time in Mandos did teach me a few things. I've learned from my mistakes. Your mother and I were always the happiest living together alone in the wilderness, and that is what I plan to do. I'll go to Amon Lanc and build a cabin with my own two hands. Back to where it all started."

"I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess," said Thranduil, making a wry face. "We acquired some new tenants partway through the last Age. They weren't the best sort of folk."

"I think I'm up to the challenge," Oropher said. "It will keep me out of your hair. And on that score, there's someone you need to meet."

Thranduil cocked an eyebrow.

Oropher proffered his flask. "Best have another hit, son, before I bring her in."

"Her?" A third pull on the flask now seemed a very good idea. "You don't mean . . .?"

Oropher grinned and nodded.

"You left my mother standing out in the corridor?"

"Her idea," Oropher said with a laugh. "She waited long enough for me to get out of Mandos. She didn't want to send you there first thing from the shock of the two of us walking in here together."

"Wise woman," Thranduil muttered, taking a quick drink while his father got up and went to the door.

Oropher leaned out and beckoned. "Colwen, sweetheart, you can come inside now. He's ready."

Oh, no he wasn't, Thranduil thought. How could a man ever be ready for something like this? He sat back in his chair, listening to the hammering of his heart as Oropher led a woman into the room.

Thranduil rose and went to meet them, moving without conscious volition. Always, he had felt the odd one out among the _Laegrim_ and the remnants of the _Iathrim_ who made up his father's people. Yet here he saw, as if looking into a mirror, hair of vibrant gold, bright as the glint of sunlight off polished metal. He saw vivid blue eyes, unlike Oropher's pale sky color, and his own too-wide mouth and chiseled nose. His mother stood before him; his missing half at last.

The woman he had called _Nana_, Galion's mother, whose face he had seen above his cradle and to whom he had run with his childhood scrapes and bruises for comfort, had been dark-haired and short for an elf-woman. She had loved him, and he had returned that affection, yet always with the secret understanding that he did not come first in her heart. Now, confronted with this stranger, he felt at a loss.

He took her into his arms; it seemed the right thing to do. Although she stood a head shorter, and felt deceptively fragile within his embrace, Thranduil sensed that it was she who sheltered him. "Mother . . ." he whispered.

She pulled away and stood smiling up at him. "Hello, Thranduil. At last we meet. I've heard so much about you."

"All of it good, I hope," he said, with a sharp look at Oropher, who stood biting the inside of his cheek.

"For the most part," she replied with a quick laugh.

Thranduil saw his parents exchange a cryptic glance. "What? What am I missing?"

Again, the look passed between the two of them, as if they shared a secret joke. Colwen shook her head subtly, and Oropher nodded and turned to him. "That's enough for now, son. If I try to explain it, we'll be here all night, and you're not the only one who enjoys your . . . rest."

Thranduil let out a soft, frustrated sigh, and his father laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

"Don't be so impatient, Thranduil. That's another lesson I learned in Mandos. We'll answer any questions you care to ask tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that."

"You mean to stay for a while? Incognito, I assume?"

Oropher nodded. "Of course . . . 'Randirion.' 'Master Pethdan' and his lovely wife, Colwen, intend to hang around here for a few more weeks before heading south. We'll talk more. And if not, well, then we'll have all the time in the world."

"Very well then," Thranduil replied, a blush coloring the tips of his ears. Legolas had obviously been talking. "Good night, Father. Good night, Mother."

Oropher ushered his wife from the room and stopped, his hand on the doorjamb. "I once called you stubborn, son. Little did I know what a virtue that would turn out to be."

A rush of warmth filled Thranduil's heart, and Oropher returned his involuntary smile.

"Nicely done, Thranduil. Nicely done indeed."

o o o O o o o

_To be continued . . _.

**Translations:  
**_Golodhren: _Noldorin  
_Laegrim_: Green-elves, Nandor  
_Iathrim_ : Doriathrins


	4. To See With Blinding Sight

**Epilogue: To See With Blinding Sight**

_'Old age should burn and rave at close of day;'  
__Dylan Thomas_

After his parents left, Thranduil found himself unready for sleep. He thrust all thought of paperwork aside and allowed his restless feet to carry him down the corridor, past the great magic doors, and out into the moist air of the spring night. On the stone bridge, he paused, listening to the rush of the river below and letting the sigh of the wind through the leaves soothe his spirit. He felt the cool smoothness of the carved railing beneath his touch, worn to satin slickness by the passage of myriad elven hands over the past three thousand years. His people. His realm. His forest.

He nodded to the two guards, standing their vigil at the end of the bridge. Then, moved by sudden impulse, he went to them. "You are relieved of your post for tonight," he said.

"My Lord?" queried the taller of them -- a dark-haired _Laegel_, possibly one of Galion's numerous far-descended progeny. An independent streak ran through that line, and Thranduil treasured it.

"You heard me," he replied gently. "The world has changed, my fellows. The orcs and spiders are gone. Go in to your wives and take your rest. There is nothing left out there to harm us."

He stood watching while the two guards bowed and went inside, then turned and stepped off the bridge, heading into the forest. He paused to lay his hand against the trunk of one of the tall beech trees that lined the path. A rustle of leaves sprang up and spread from tree to tree heading southward, the sound joining with the footfalls of a solitary deer that ambled somewhere out in the undergrowth.

Thranduil sent his strength out into the forest and felt the life-force of the trees flow back into him in return. He laid his forehead against the cool bark with a soft sigh. Only he and his trees would know how close a call it had been the previous week; how near he had come to going under for good.

Nothing more to fear, he had told the guards. Indeed the only thing to fear now would be the fear itself: the loss of strength, the surrender to weariness. "You came home to fade along with me, Legolas," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm not going to let that happen." As long as the forest stood, so would he. And he would remain strong for all of them.

Already, the Woodmen had abandoned the forest. Thranduil has seen to that, slipping into the huts of those who would cut the trees and clear the land for their fields, whispering into their ears in the dark of night and giving them unquiet dreams that made them flee the wood out of a nagging unease. Time to finish the job. He would have a word with Radagast and ask the Wizard to set up a girdle of enchantment, as Melian had done for Thingol of old. Eryn Lasgalen would fade from the sight of Men, although not from the world.

Out in the forest, two owls hooted softly, the one to the other. Thranduil smiled and, giving a parting caress to the ancient beech, he turned and walked back over the bridge, whispering the spell that opened the great stone doors before him.

On the threshold, he paused, giving a final glance out into the spring night. "Stubborn, Father?" he laughed, his heart leaping with joy at the thought of the long-years that stretched out before him, providing he had the will to rage against the long slow fade. "You don't know the half of it."

Thranduil clasped his arms together, feeling the strength of the muscles beneath the fabric of his robe and murmuring the words pricked long ago into his skin. "_Belê. Bor_." Strength and loyalty, the words of his oath to his wife's people, also made up the spell that locked the gates. That same oath would carry them through the Ages to come.

Slowly, the great doors ground shut behind him, and Thranduil sought his bed.

_The End_

**Translation:  
**_Laegel: _Green-elf

**Author's Note:  
**The chapter titles and epigraphs come from Dylan Thomas's poem, _Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night_, the last stanza of which reads:

_And you, my father, there on the sad height,  
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  
Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. _

What perfect words to set the mood for a story about the delicate balance between fathers and sons and Thranduil's battle against the fade. Thank you, Mr. Thomas.


End file.
